The Weight of the Wait

"History" by Sue Gough

April 23, 2017 - Second Sunday of Easter

“The Weight of the Wait”

John 20:19-31

19 When it was evening on that day, the first day of the week, and the doors of the house where the disciples had met were locked for fear of the Jews, Jesus came and stood among them and said, “Peace be with you.” 20 After he said this, he showed them his hands and his side. Then the disciples rejoiced when they saw the Lord. 21 Jesus said to them again, “Peace be with you. As the Father has sent me, so I send you.” 22 When he had said this, he breathed on them and said to them, “Receive the Holy Spirit. 23 If you forgive the sins of any, they are forgiven them; if you retain the sins of any, they are retained.”

24 But Thomas (who was called the Twin), one of the twelve, was not with them when Jesus came. 25 So the other disciples told him, “We have seen the Lord.” But he said to them, “Unless I see the mark of the nails in his hands, and put my finger in the mark of the nails and my hand in his side, I will not believe.”

26 A week later his disciples were again in the house, and Thomas was with them. Although the doors were shut, Jesus came and stood among them and said, “Peace be with you.” 27 Then he said to Thomas, “Put your finger here and see my hands. Reach out your hand and put it in my side. Do not be unbelieving, but believe.” 28 Thomas answered him, “My Lord and my God!” 29 Jesus said to him, “Have you believed because you have seen me? Blessed are those who have not seen and yet have come to believe.”

30 Now Jesus did many other signs in the presence of his disciples, which are not written in this book. 31 But these are written so that you may come to believe that Jesus is the Messiah, the Son of God, and that through believing you may have life in his name.

Sermon: “The Weight of the Wait”

Punctuality has never been my strength. I think it all started at the very beginning of my life: I was born a twin, but even then I was late, arriving several minutes after my brother. And I kind of feel like I’ve been trying to play catch up my whole life. I suppose I should introduce myself: I’m Thomas, sometimes called “the Twin”, always called “the doubter.”

Here’s the thing: I don’t actually mind being called a doubter. What I mind is when people say it as if it were an insult. Doubt and faith are two sides of the same coin. I wasn’t asking for more proof than the other disciples…they’d already had it. I was simply asking for what they’d been shown already. And, it might be good for you to know that Jesus didn’t even say the word “doubt.” That word is distazō and doesn’t actually appear in this story in its original language. Jesus used another word instead: apistos, meaning “unbelieving.” This word is a much kinder one than doubt…after all, how many of us, on hearing incredible or shocking news, involuntarily gasp, “I can’t believe it!” Unbelief is the valid response to the unbelievable, the incredible. That word is also not an insult.

Now, after getting that doubt elephant in the room addressed, I’d like to share with you a part of my story people seem to miss because they’re way too fixated on that “D” word.

After Jesus was killed, all the other disciples were locked in a room, afraid that what happened to him would happen to them. I wasn’t. I didn’t care about what might happen to me (after all, you may remember that when my friend Lazarus died, I told everyone we should go, that we might die with him). What I cared about was finding Jesus (you’ll also remember that when Jesus said he was going away, I pressed him, saying “we don’t know the way to where you’re going” and he said, “I am the way, and the truth, and the life.”). I wanted to find Jesus, and so I didn’t go and lock myself away like the other disciples. I suppose I should have known that Jesus would find us first.

And so, I was late to the resurrection party, surprise, surprise. When I did get there, the faces of my friends were glowing with a holy joy: “He’s alive!” they said. “We’ve seen him!” I was so tired, I just slumped down right there and cried. I felt a perplexing mingling of relief and deep sorrow. Thomas, the twin. Too late again.

Then comes the part of my story everyone seems to miss, a part that has shaped my faith in significant ways: I had to wait for a week before Jesus appeared to us again. 

A. 

Week.

I want you to just for a moment picture the person you love most in the world. Now imagine that they were stolen away from you. You finally get word that they’re okay, but you can’t see them. You can’t touch their face, or hug them, or hear their voice. All you can do is wait.

Knowing Jesus was likely to appear again around us disciples, I stayed in that locked room for a week straight. I ate there, I slept there, I barely looked after myself in brief snatches, rushing back into the room in case I missed him again. The weight of that wait was excruciating.

But you know that, don’t you? You’ve waited, too, I can see it. Some of you wait for a child or grandchild to come back to you, emotionally or physically. Some of you wait for healing, for life to feel whole and normal again. Some of you wait for things to get just a little less hectic, so you’re not flitting from crisis to crisis. Some of you wait to be shown God’s purpose for your life, a reason for getting up in the morning. Some of you even wait for the eternal glory of heaven. The waiting time is excruciating.

But time is a funny thing. Even against our wills, time works the waiting into a rhythm all its own. We begin to form patterns, like I did (check the door, water the plants, sweep the floor, pray) and through what I can only call the grace of God, the waiting becomes a holy thing all its own. Now, don’t mistake my meaning here – holiness is rarely comfortable and cozy. The waiting is still excruciating, but even in that anxiety, holiness creeps in, surprises us.

What I mean is, Jesus’ resurrection hope started coming to me, even before he appeared in the flesh. I began to find joy in my little routine everyday, to feel that even though there were so many things beyond my control, I could keep that plant alive, that floor swept, my friends safe.

The ache of grief in the pit of my stomach softened, and though it was still there, I could breathe. The waiting taught me patience. Not some super pious patience towards time itself; no, it taught me first to be patient with myself, with others, too. In the times of waiting, we have to be gentle with ourselves and others, extra kind, and celebrate those small victories of doing the best we can with what we have.

Perhaps waiting is so weighty because it’s actually the best thing for our faith. It’s our best spiritual exercise for a healthy soul. (And like most exercise, we’d really rather not have to do it!)

By the time Jesus did come, a full week later, it didn’t shock me. I knew he would come when he was ready. He came straight to me, seeing the toll the waiting had taken on me, and without me even asking, said, “Thomas, see, touch, believe.”

I did, and could see that though he was alive in every sense of the word, he, too bore the wounds of waiting. Waiting for humanity’s lust for violence to stop. Waiting for his followers to get out from behind their locked doors and actually do all he told them to do. Waiting to be reunited with the Creator and the Spirit.

Unbelief left my vocabulary for a time, though of course it creeps in every now and then. But it wasn’t just touching him that did that; it was also the waiting that did that. Because life doesn’t just come in the grand moments of glory and delight; it mostly comes in the small, less glamorous moments of waiting.

So, friends, let me, Late Thomas, encourage you: you can never really be late for the resurrection party. It’s never too late to experience life. And no wait is too weighty for God to come and meet you in it, to form your faith through it, yes, faith in God, but mostly, faith in yourself.

Whatever it is you wait for, embrace that holy, uncomfortable time. Seek out and create small signs of resurrection even in the waiting. And cling to the promise that, eventually, when he is ready, Jesus will come to you, perhaps when you least expect it. He probably won’t apologize for taking so long (though we wish he would). But he will instead say this, “Peace be with you.” And it really will. Alleluia! Amen.